[Genevieve 01] - Drachenfels

by Jack Yeovil - (ebook by Undead)

  Then the lights came in.

  Genevieve, a lantern in either hand, stood in the doorway. The chamber was small, and had a dead dwarf in it. Otherwise, Detlef, Kraly and the men-at-arms were alone. In the dark, one of the crown prince’s men had been stabbed in the thigh by a comrade, and was bleeding messily as he applied a tourniquet. Genevieve went to his aid, and he cringed away from her as she tied the wound properly. The bleeding stopped and the man seemed somewhat surprised that the vampire let him be.

  “Well done, Kraly. Oswald will be proud of you, I’m sure.” Detlef pushed his shoulder back into place, gritting his teeth through the pain.

  The steward wasn’t rattled by his failure. He was on his knees, examining the dwarf. Detlef was upset to notice the footprint in the new-made corpse’s stomach, and thought better of looking at his own slipper.

  “The skin’s gone, this time. And the kidneys. And the eyes, of course. And… um… the regenerative organs.”

  Kraly blushed at having to mention such indecent matters in the presence of a lady.

  “He was alive when we came in, Kraly,” said Detlef. “We probably trampled him to death.”

  “He wouldn’t have lived.”

  “Obviously not, but he might have told us something before he went. We’ve not done well here.”

  Kraly stood up, wiping the dust from his knee-britches. He pulled out a kerchief and tried to get the blood off his hands. He rubbed away at his fingers long after they were clean.

  “There must be another way out,” said Genevieve. “I was at the door. No one came through it after you all pushed your way in.”

  They all looked around the room. It was bare stone, with traces of graffiti in a language or languages Detlef didn’t recognize as the only adornment. Kraly gave an order, and his men began prodding with their halberds. Finally, when they tried the ceiling, a stone receded above a blade, and a whole section of the wall swung inwards. Beyond lay a hidden passage, its floor thick with the dust of centuries. The cobwebs had recently been parted.

  “You first, Kraly,” said Detlef.

  The steward, a single-shot pistol in his hand, led the way. Detlef and Genevieve followed, along with four of the halberdiers. They had to leave their halberds behind because the secret passage was too low for the weapons. They all had to stoop.

  “This would be a fine escape route for a dwarf,” said Kraly.

  “Menesh was the victim, not the murderer,” mentioned Detlef.

  “I wasn’t thinking of Menesh.”

  There was blood in the dust.

  “We must have wounded him.”

  “Either that or he got covered in the stuff while skinning Menesh.”

  “Possibly.”

  The passage wound down a spiral staircase, into the heart of Drachenfels. They found a skeleton in centuries-old armour, the skull exploded from within. Detlef shuddered. This place had more horrors than the Northern Wastes. Sigmar himself would think twice at exploring its nether regions.

  There were eyeholes in the walls now. Detlef guessed they would peer through the eyes of portraits in the chambers. Either Drachenfels had had a fine sense of irony in his deployment of melodramatic devices, or—more likely—he had invented the clichés later taken up by addlewits out to chill the spines of their audiences. The way things were going, he expected a contested will, devious heirs, corpses concealed in suits of armour and a last-act unmasking of the kindly old steward as a mad killer.

  Then they came to a door, and were back in the familiar part of the fortress. This was where the company were billeted.

  “Surely that can’t be,” Detlef said. “We descended to the place where Menesh was killed, and now we’ve come down again, back to where we started.”

  “This place is like that,” said Genevieve. “It’s all down, whichever way you go.”

  The door swung back, sealing the secret passage. It looked like any other section of the wall.

  “Kraly, weren’t you supposed to have someone on guard in this corridor? Someone who might have noticed a murderer covered from head to foot in blood creep out of the wall?”

  The steward’s face was frozen. “I had to redeploy my forces to search the castle. That’s why you’re still alive.”

  Detlef had to admit he had a point. “We’re alive, yes, but how do we know everyone in these rooms hasn’t been slaughtered in their beds? Only, with our luck, they’d have spared Lilli Nissen.”

  “Our quarry was in too much haste to do harm to anyone. Look, he left us a spoor to read.”

  There was blood on the carpet. It petered out after a few feet. Outside a door. There was a red smear on the knob.

  “I believe we have our killer,” said Kraly, grimly satisfied.

  “Don’t you think that’s just a bit too convenient?” asked Detlef. “Besides, there was more than one person chanting.”

  “That’s as may be. We’ll round up the confederates later. But first let’s take our man. Or whatever he is…”

  The door was locked. Kraly discharged his gun at the lock. Others opened up and down the passage, and heads peeked out. Detlef would have to ask later what Kosinski was doing in Lilli Nissen’s suite. Kraly kicked the door, and it splintered as it slammed back.

  Vargr Breughel had jumped out of bed. Kraly looked at him, and gasped. Detlef pushed through, and felt as if he had been punched in the stomach.

  His friend and adviser looked up at him through eyes in his chest and hands.

  But it was the look in the eyes in his face that struck through to Detlef.

  Breughel, the monster, was crying.

  II

  There is no pleasure like rising with the sun and finding yourself in the forests of the Empire, thought Karl-Franz I as he made water in the bushes. He listened to the birdsong, naming each individual species in his head as he distinguished it from the rest of the chatter of the morning chorus. It was a fine spring morning, and the sun was already high, streaming through the tall trees. There would be deer along their route today, the Emperor was sure. It was years since he had hunted deer.

  In the camp, there were the groans and complaints of those stirred too early from their slumbers. Karl-Franz was amused to find which of his distinguished travelling companions awoke irritable in the wilds, which were nursing heads befuddled by last night’s food and drink, and which sprang to their horses enlivened by the call of the birds and the fresh feel of dew underfoot. Herbal tea was being brewed in huge iron pots, and a light breakfast prepared.

  Some of the worthies chose to sleep in carriages as well appointed and upholstered as any bed-chamber in any palace, but Karl-Franz wanted only the feel of a blanket between himself and the ground. The empress disagreed, and had opted to stay at home with one of her persistent illnesses, but Luitpold, their twelve-year-old son and heir, was revelling in the freedom of the forests. There were still men-at-arms watching out for the Imperial family at every moment—Karl-Franz couldn’t even wander into the woods to empty his bladder without a sword-bearing shadow following him—but there was open air about them. The Emperor felt free of the burdens of state, felt a respite from the stifling procedures of running the country, of resisting the incursions of evil, of defying the dark.

  The elector of Middenland, who had been protesting very loudly ever since he learned precisely who Oswald had engaged to stage his play for him, was rubbing his aching back, and moaning softly to the red-haired page who always seemed to be with him. The grand theogonist of the cult of Sigmar, a frail old man for such a robust deity, had not shown a hair of his head outside his coach since they left Altdorf, and his snoring was a source of some amusement. Karl-Franz observed the other electors and their attendants as they shook the sleep from their heads, and took tea. He was learning more of these men and women upon whom the Empire rested on this trip than he had in years of courtly meetings and grand balls.

  Aside from Oswald, who rode as if born on a horse and could bring down a pheasant with a single crossbo
w bolt, the only elector who seemed entirely comfortable on this journey was the elder of the Halfling Moot, who spent most of his time eating or laughing. The young Baron Johann von Mecklenberg, elector of the Sudenland, was a skilled woodsman, Karl-Franz knew, having spent half his life wandering in search of a lost brother and only recently returned to his estates. Johann gave the impression that he had seen things which made pleasure trips like this petty by comparison. He wore his scars like medals, and didn’t talk much. The lady mayoress and chancellor of the University of Nuln, Countess Emmanuelle von Leibewitz, rumoured to be the most eligible spinster in the Empire, was not winning any friends with her whining about the tedious details of the hundreds of masques and parties she had thrown. Karl-Franz was both amused and appalled at the realization that the countess was cooing over Luitpold not in any motherly sense but because she regarded the future Emperor as an ideal marriage prospect despite the obvious disparities of age and temperament between them.

  The Emperor took a steaming mug of tea from his attendant, and downed a gulp of the hot, sweet beverage. Middenheim was asking how much longer they would be on the road, and Oswald was making a rough guess. Young Luitpold crashed out of the undergrowth, his jerkin soiled and his hair untidy, pushing Resnais of Marienburg aside, and bore a still-twitching rabbit to the fire. His arrow had taken it in the haunches. Karl-Franz noted that his son took his prize to Oswald for approval. The crown prince deftly snapped the dying animal’s neck.

  “Excellent, highness,” said the elector of Ostland. “This was well shot.”

  Luitpold looked around, grinning, as Oswald tousled his already wild hair. Resnais fastidiously brushed his clothes. Oswald waved to Karl-Franz.

  “Your son will feed the Empire, my friend.”

  “I hope so. If it needs feeding.”

  Talabecland crawled out of his vast tent, bleary-eyed and unshaven. He looked at the bleeding rabbit in Oswald’s hand and moaned.

  Oswald and Luitpold laughed. Karl-Franz joined them. This was what the life of the Emperor should always be. Good friends and good hunting.

  “Here.” Oswald dipped his hand into the rabbit’s wounds, and drew red lines on Luitpold’s cheeks. “Now, future Emperor, you have been blooded.”

  Luitpold ran to Karl-Franz, and saluted his father. The Emperor returned the salute.

  “Well, my hero son, perhaps you should wash yourself off and have some tea. We may rule the greatest country in the Known World, but we have an empress who rules us, and she would want you well fed and warmed out here. Husbands have been skewered through the eye with tent pegs for less.”

  Luitpold took his mug.

  “Ah, father, but surely the Emperor Hajalmar was assassinated for being appallingly ill-suited to the throne, rather than for his shortcomings as a family man. I seem to recall from my lessons that he died childless, and so could hardly be accused of neglecting the welfare of his heirs, unless you count his failure to produce any as a lack of fatherly spirit.”

  “Well learned, my son. Now clean your face and have your tea before I abdicate in favour of your little sister and cut you out of the succession.”

  Everybody laughed, and Karl-Franz recognized the deep-throated genuine laughter he could sometimes elicit rather than the weak chuckles that came from people who believed an Emperor’s joke was automatically funny and that there would be a penalty of death for anyone who thought differently. There was a neighing as the horses were roused in their makeshift pens by the ostlers.

  “Father,” asked Luitpold, “who were the monks who came here last night?”

  Karl-Franz was taken aback.

  “Monks? I know of no monks. Have you any idea what the lad means, Oswald?”

  The elector shook his head, a blank look on his face. Perhaps too blank, as if something were being concealed.

  “Last night, when all were asleep save the guards, I was awakened.”

  Luitpold told his story. “I was worried about Fortunato’s hoof. His shoe has been working loose, and I thought I heard him whinnying. I got up and went to the pens, and Fortunato was fast asleep. I must have dreamed his cry. But when I returned to my tent, I saw men standing at the edge of the clearing. At first, I supposed them to be the guards, but then I noticed they were dressed in long robes and hoods, like the monks of Ulric…”

  The high priest of the cult of Ulric shrugged, and scratched his belly. Talabecland and Middenheim were attentive. Luitpold, enjoying their regard, continued.

  “They were standing still, but their faces glowed a little, as if lit by lanterns. I would have called out to them to explain their business, but I didn’t want to wake everyone. I was suddenly very sleepy, so I returned to my tent. I assumed you would know what they were about.”

  Oswald looked thoughtful.

  “Do you suppose my son could have witnessed some apparition? My late father was prone to seeing spirits. The knack could have skipped a generation.”

  “I’ve heard of no such spectral cadre,” said Oswald. “There are many stories about the hauntings in these woods. My friend Rudi Wegener, whom you will meet at Castle Drachenfels, knows and has told me of dozens of local legends. But these monks do not mean anything to me.”

  The Baron von Mecklenberg snorted. “Then you are less well learned on your own legend than you should be, Ostland. The monks of Drachenfels are widely remembered by necromancers and spirit-chasers.”

  Karl-Franz imagined Oswald was discomforted by his fellow elector’s knowledge.

  The baron poured the last of his tea hissing into the fire, and continued, “Drachenfels killed many in his time, and was enchanter enough to make his sway over his victims last beyond their death. Their spirits clung to him, became his slaves. Some even became his followers. They were supposed to be seen in habits like monks. Even after their master’s death, they are rumoured to cling together, to form an order in the world of ghosts. We travel to the fortress of Drachenfels, and evidently the Great Enchanter’s victims ride with us.”

  III

  Last night, at precisely the worst point, an assistant stage manager had told Detlef “things will look better in the morning” and lost two front teeth.

  This morning, when, as expected, things looked even worse than they had been, Detlef vaguely regretted his temper. He had fallen into a swoon just before dawn, and woke up now with a pain in his skinned knuckles. His head ached worse than it had ever done the morning after a drunken orgy, and his mouth felt as if it had been filled with quick-drying slime.

  The servant who brought him his breakfast on a tray had left it at his bedside and not dared to disturb him. He took a mouthful of cold tea, swished it around to clean the scum off his teeth, and spat back into the cup. The bacon and bread were cold and greasy. He took a bite and forced himself to get it down.

  It all came flooding back horribly.

  His best friend was a strangely altered monstrosity, and Henrik Kraly claimed he was also the madman who had murdered Rudi Wegener and Menesh the dwarf.

  He hadn’t bothered to undress last night. Now he did, and found fresh clothes laid out for him. He pulled them on, trying to will the fog out of his head. He rubbed his stubbled chin, and decided to put off shaving until his hands were steady enough to hold the razor.

  Detlef found most of the company gathered in the main hall, peering at a notice posted on the door, signed by Henrik Kraly.

  It was an announcement that the murderer had been caught and that things would now proceed normally. Vargr Breughel was not mentioned, and no one had yet noticed he wasn’t with them.

  “I bet it’s that bastard Kosinski,” said a small voice.

  “No, it’s not,” said Kosinski, hitting someone.

  “Where’s the vampire?” asked Justus the Trickster.

  “It wasn’t her,” said Detlef. “Kraly’s taken Breughel—”

  There were general gasps of disbelief.

  “And it wasn’t him either. At least, it’s not been proved to my satisf
action. Where is Genevieve?”

  No one knew.

  Detlef found her in her room, dead in her bed. She wasn’t breathing, but he felt a slow heartbeat. There was no waking her.

  Even in his current state of disturbance, he took the time to look around. There were books on her dressing table, written in an arcane form of Bretonnian Detlef could just recognize but not follow. Genevieve’s diaries? They would make interesting reading. A scarf had been hung over the mirror.

  It must be strange to lose familiarity with your own face, Detlef supposed.

  Otherwise, the room was like any other woman’s. Trunks of clothes, a few pamphlets, keys and coins on the nightstand, an icon-sized portrait of a couple dressed in the styles of seven centuries ago. There was a copy of the Drachenfels script on a chair, with annotations in a tiny hand. He would have to ask her about that. Was she studying her own part? Lilli Nissen’s part, rather. When she didn’t wake up after a minute or two, Detlef left her to the sleep of the undying.

  He found Reinhardt Jessner, and told him to take the cast through their lines while he saw to Breughel. The young actor understood immediately, and corralled the company efficiently.

  There were Kraly-signed notices up all over the fortress, issuing orders and failing to explain the situation. He must have been up all night putting his signature to them.

  Detlef found them in the stables, which had been converted into a makeshift jail-cum-interrogation room. He was drawn to the place by the noise of the thumps.